


Look Both Ways

by fromthefiresofhell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Babysitting, Dubious Consent, High school!Dean, Kid Fic, Kid!Castiel, M/M, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:57:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthefiresofhell/pseuds/fromthefiresofhell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let’s get one thing straight. Dean is not a pervert or a pedophile. He doesn’t go to playgrounds and watch toddlers go down slides to get his rocks off. In fact, he’s quite the opposite. </p><p>Castiel is just different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look Both Ways

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in a underage mood and have a snow day, so here's a little something-something I came up with. Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own

Let’s get one thing straight. Dean is not a pervert or a pedophile. He doesn’t go to playgrounds and watch toddlers go down slides to get his rocks off. In fact, he’s quite the opposite. The older they are- and therefore the more experience they have- the better. 

And he’s not a fag, either. Sure, he’s experimented (who hasn’t?) but he doesn’t actively seek out dick. A quick go in the locker room after practice or a secret meeting in the Impala in some empty parking lot doesn’t make him queer. Dean Winchester is a ladies’ man- he likes tits and pussies and the smell of a girl’s hair. 

Castiel is just different. 

For one thing, he’s twice as pretty as any girl Dean’s ever seen. He’s got these huge blue bedroom eyes rimmed with lashes that would make Nicki Minaj jealous, set above full pink lips that looked downright illegal sucking on a lollypop. His ass is rounder and more perky than any boy’s lawfully should be and Dean’s not ashamed to say it’s been featured in a good number of his fantasies. 

Sometimes Dean thinks there must be a God, because no way a kid could look like that without a little bit of divine intervention. 

Despite all his shortcomings, though, Dean prides himself on restraint. Prior to popular belief he’s not a moron and isn’t gonna land himself in juvy because he got a little too worked up over one extremely lucky popsicle. 

So Dean bides his time. 

Four, tortuous months of it. 

And he waits, not knowing when the next call is going to come. Dean’s something of an opportunist. He doesn’t manipulate situations, he simply waits for an opportunity them to present itself. Sam calls it laziness. Dean tells him to shut his fucking mouth and mind his own business. 

The opportunity finally presents itself one spring night when he’s babysitting for the Novaks, who’re off at some hoity toity dinner or some shit. They go out often and since Dean lives right next door, he’s always the one they call first. Not once has he turned down an offer to help them out, he’s just _neighborly_ like that, and has even gone so far as to cancel already established plans to accept the measly five dollars an hour they give him. For being so loaded, they’re more frugal than he is. 

The mister and missus are out until ass o’clock in the morning, not due back until the crack of dawn, so Dean’s brought his guitar over to practice while Castiel’s in bed. They left just an hour and a half before his bedtime so all Dean really had to do was get him supper and make sure he showered, which wasn’t all that complicated. Castiel may be as innocent as a virgin in a brothel but he’s mature, maybe more so than Sam, who has at least five years on him. 

Dean’s plucking out some popular love song that he can’t remember the name of- the girls go batty for that particular brand of shit- when he hears the stairs creaking.  
Frowning, he stops playing and listens again, but the noises stop. Dead giveaway.

“Why are you out of bed, Cas?” Dean calls, setting aside his guitar and checking his watch. It’s ten, he’s been up there for two hours and Dean isn’t playing any louder than he was two hours ago. No way his gentle strumming woke the kid up. 

The stairs squeak in rapid succession and Castiel appears at the bottom, bottom lip stuck out in a pout and rubbing a hand over his sleep-blurred eyes. His pajamas are a size too big for his tiny frame and the baggy shirt slips off one shoulder, exposing a slab of creamy flesh. God, he’s fucking irresistible. If he’s twice as pretty as any girl, he’s three times as seductive. And he’s not even fucking _trying_. 

“I can’t sleep,” Castiel says. “My tummy hurts.”

“I told you not to eat that whole candy bar,” Dean says. “King sized chocolate bars are not made for pint sized stomachs.”

Castiel’s pout gets bigger and his bottom lip quivers, eyes going glassy. “Are you mad at me?”

Silently cursing the Novaks to the depths of hell for the way they treat their child, Dean sighs. He is a bit frustrated that Castiel didn’t listen to him, even though it had been gorgeous watching him trying to fit the whole width of the bar into his mouth, but the last thing Castiel needs is someone else telling him that he’s a bad kid.

His parents already yell at him enough, Dean can hear them going at it when he has his window open. Dean once asked Castiel if his parents hurt him at all, but he said no and showed Dean his unbruised skin to prove it. Physical and mental pain aren’t the same thing, though. Dean knows from experience. But Castiel refuses to talk about his parents to Dean, saying no more than clipped responses when he asks about them. 

_How are your parents treating you, Cas?_ Dean had asked one time, pausing the movie they were watching, to which Castiel replied _Fine_ and reached across Dean to grab the remote and play the movie. He refused to look Dean in the eye for the rest of the night. 

“No, I’m not mad.” Dean pats his knee. “C’mere.”

Scampering over, Castiel settles into Dean’s lap and curls in a fetal position, snuggling into his chest when Dean’s arms come up to hug him. He was quick to trust Dean, probably on account of not having a single friend outside his family, and doesn’t pull away when Dean runs his fingers through his hair and down his back. In fact, he actually presses into the touch like an attention-starved cat, curling backward to offer for room for Dean’s hand when it slides to his stomach and rubs. 

“How does it hurt? Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”

Castiel shakes his head vigorously, over-long hair on his head tickling Dean’s nose. “No, it just hurts.”

“I know a cure for that,” Dean says. Castiel isn’t the first kid he’s taken care of, he spent a good part of his childhood playing daddy to Sam. Depositing Castiel on the couch cushions, Dean stands and goes to the fridge. 

Rummaging around, Dean triumphantly withdraws a can of ginger ale and cracks it open. Castiel watches him over the back of the couch, eyes wide as he watches Dean bring the soda over. 

“But I’m not allowed to drink pop.”

“It’ll be our secret.” Dean hands him the can. “Drink up.”

Watching hungrily as Castiel obediently drains the can, Dean rubs his palms down the length of his jeans and licks his lips, considering. He may not be a pervert, but his mind certainly is twisted, and there are several directions he could see this going in. For the record, about half of them are PG, but it’s the other half that Dean finds most interesting.

“Do you trust me?” Dean asks. 

Lowering the empty soda can and blinking owlishly, Castiel cocks his head in confusion. “What?”

“I said, do you trust me?” Dean feels ridiculous asking the question, like he’s Peter Pan or Aladdin or one of the other ridiculously good natured Disney heroes from a movie he’s watched with Castiel, but he doesn’t want to do something then have the kid rat on him. Where’s the fun in that?

“Why?” It’s not an accusation, simply curious. Castiel’s like that. There’s a reason for everything and he has to know it. 

“I know a way to help your stomach, but you can’t tell anyone about it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Dean nods. “Okay,” he repeats. Then, mouth suddenly dry with anticipation, he says, “Take off your clothes.”

Castiel’s brow wrinkles with bewilderment but he does as he’s asked, wriggling to get out of his oversized pj’s. The kid has no shame, Dean’s seen him running around his unfenced backyard wearing nothing but his birthday suit in broad daylight without a shred of humility to be seen. Part of it, Dean thinks, is the fact that his parents homeschool him. He’s never been exposed to the cesspool of public school, nor does he have the advantage of other, more knowledgeable boys his age to show him their daddy’s dirty magazines or grown-up websites.

The only friends Castiel has to speak of is his own siblings, but Dean was informed by Mrs. Novak herself- not without an air of superiority - that all of his nine brothers and sisters are off at fancy private schools or colleges or internships, scattered across the country. Castiel only sees them for two weeks out of the whole year, one for Christmas and one over the summer, and that time is spent under the watchful eye of their parents. No time to impart import lessons of adulthood on their youngest brother.

Once Castiel’s naked, he folds his clothes neatly on the coffee table and stands in front of Dean, arms slack by his side and not even making an attempt to cover himself. Dean leans forward eagerly, trying not to look too predatory as he drinks in the sight of Castiel’s bare skin.

His body is just beginning to show the first signs of maturity, the lines of his figure are starting to loose some of their childish softness and are being replaced with the fuller, longer limbs of a teenager. No longer rounded to fit all of his organs, Castiel’s stomach is flat and thin, scattered with a few moles and freckles but otherwise void of imperfections. A few wispy hairs curl at the base of his soft cock, uncut and still boyishly small, but besides that he appears completely void of body hair. Dean has no doubt that the fine blond hair on his legs and arms will thicken and grow darker with age to match the shade of almost-black brown on the kid’s head. 

If Castiel’s this perfect now, Dean can’t even begin to fathom what he’ll look like when he’s legal. God, he can’t wait.

“Mr. Winchester?” Castiel says anxiously and Dean snaps his eyes up to meet Castiel’s own, aware that he’s been staring too long. 

“I told you, no matter what you’re parents say, you don’t have to call me that, Cas.” Reluctantly, Dean turns away to rummage through his bag. “It makes me feel old.”

Castiel shrugs and scuffs his feet on the carpet, arms swinging nonchalantly beside him. “You _are_ old.”

“Hey!” Dean says, faking being offended. “I’m only eighteen!”

Crinkling his nose, Castiel says, “That’s old.”

“Shut up, you.” Dean straightens up, prize clasped in his hand. “Now lie down on the table.”

Glancing down as Castiel shuffles backwards so the back of his knees meet the edge of the coffee table, Dean squeezes the bottle of lube until a considerable amount pools in his hand, cool and slick. He thanks his lucky stars that he’s a man of preparation and always has a spare bottle with him, he isn’t sure he would be able to do this using olive oil or some other stand in. 

While he’s rubbing the lube between his fingers to warm it up, Dean looks up and opens his mouth, meaning to tell Castiel that it might feel weird at first, but the words die in his throat.

Castiel’s lying on his back with his knees hooked over the table, legs spread like a two dollar whore and dangling towards the floor. He’s propped up on his elbows, watching what Dean’s doing with open curiosity. The position he’s in makes him look like the centerfold of a skin mag and damn if Dean wouldn’t buy three copies just for that picture. If he isn’t the epitome of subtle seduction, Dean doesn’t know what is.

“Um, no,” Dean croaks when he finally finds his voice. He clears his throat and twirls a finger on the horizontal. “On your stomach.”

Unperturbed, Castiel rolls over, head landing on his crisply folded pajamas and knees locking so his legs stick out straight. Using his unlubed hand, Dean gently grasps Castiel’s thigh and urges him backwards until his hips are even with the edge of the table and his legs land on the floor with a light thud. He turns his head so he can watch Dean, head cushioned on the fold of his arms. 

Partially to get Castiel used to his touch and partially convince himself that this isn’t a dream, Dean runs his hand down Castiel’s back, gently massaging the small muscles underneath. With a sigh that Dean can feel stretching the ribs under his palm, Castiel’s eye lids slide shut and he hums in pleasure. The sound vibrates through his chest and back and rumbles against Dean’s hand. 

“Feels good?” Dean asks.

“Yes.” Castiel, forever true to Dean’s cat metaphor, arches into his hand. “But it doesn’t help my tummy.”

“Not done yet,” Dean says, eyes trailing from where they had been watching the jump of Castiel’s muscles under his hand to his target. Castiel’s legs are still parted, offering just the tiniest of peeks at his hole, fresh and pink with youngness. Castiel’s, what, only ten, eleven? There hasn’t been time for the skin to get discolored with less than pleasant substances and Dean would bet that if he stuck his nose down there it would smell like a newborn baby- clean and full. 

Dean lets his hand journey father and farter south until it reaches the cleft of Castiel’s ass. Then, he trails it along a cheek and pulls it gently back until Castiel’s hole is fully exposed. 

Tracing a single lubed finger across Castiel’s opposite cheek, Dean almost asks if he’s ready but, then again, he doesn’t know what to be ready for. As he draws closer and closer to Castiel’s entrance, Dean’s breathing picks up and sweat gathers under his arms, excitement making his hand shake. He’s already painfully hard in his jeans, cock straining against his zipper and throbbing with need.

Dean’s finger dips down into the cleft and, with a murmured _fuck_ , slides down to skim against Castiel’s hole.

 

x

 

Castiel likes Mr. Winchester. He’s much nicer than the babysitter at their old house and he never even yells, except for that one time Castiel accidentally switched to a television channel with naked people, but he wasn’t even angry, just scared, it looked like. And when they moved in, he came over with his brother, Sam, to give them a homemade pie, which Castiel was only allowed to have one piece of because it was so sugary, but was really good anyway. Mr. Winchester always brings dessert when he comes over, usually something that will fit in his bag so Castiel’s parents won’t see. 

Secretly, Castiel wishes his parents would go out more so Mr. Winchester could come over more often. Castiel’s not lonely, he has his books and his mother and father, but Mr. Winchester makes it _seem_ like he’ll be lonely if he’s not there. Even though he’s just a house over, Castiel’s parents won’t let him visit Mr. Winchester unless they need to leave quickly and don’t have time to call him and ask to come to their house to watch Castiel. Then they drop him off at the end of the Winchester’s driveway as long as Mr. Winchester’s car is out front.

And he’s really fun to play with, too. All the board games that Castiel had never used because his parents wouldn’t play with him aren’t new anymore because Mr. Winchester taught him out to play them, and sometimes he brings over a machine that plugs into the TV so they can play games with fast cars on the big screen. He tried to teach Castiel how to play his guitar once, but his hands were too small, so he only showed him a few chords and then said they’d wait until he was older. Castiel’s parents would never do any of the stuff Mr. Winchester does.

Like now. If Castiel had a bellyache when his parents were home, he wouldn’t even get out of bed because they would just tell him to stop being a baby and go back to sleep. Mr. Winchester offered to help him and didn’t even call him a baby, though Castiel doesn’t really see how this is supposed to help his tummy.

Mr. Winchester’s hand on his back was nice, big and warm, even if it was a little bit rough and didn’t make his belly feel better. Castiel sometimes lies like this when the doctor listens to his breathing, but the doctor never touches him where Mr. Winchester is touching now. 

One of Mr. Winchester’s hand is on his bottom, squeezing a little bit every once and a while, and his thumb is stroking him kind of like a cat. Castiel can’t see his other hand, but one of his fingers is wet and is gently touching the place that he uses to go to the bathroom, which is kind of gross, but Mr. Winchester doesn’t looked grossed out. He looks a little bit nervous, but mostly really happy- his cheeks are red and his eyes are shining. 

And it feels nice. Different from when Mr. Winchester was rubbing his back, but still nice, so Castiel closes his eyes and doesn’t ask how this is going to cure his tummyache. He still doesn’t understand, but Mr. Winchester said it would help and Castiel doesn’t want to break his concentration, so he doesn’t ask again. 

It’s only when he feels Mr. Winchester’s finger, wet and slippery like a worm, start to go _inside_ him that he makes a sound- a gasp of surprise. 

Castiel stiffens and his eyes fly open. He knows the food goes someplace from his stomach, not directly out, but he doesn’t know where. Is Mr. Winchester going to reach inside his tummy and take all the chocolate he ate out? Castiel’s never touched himself there, or put anything inside him, but Mr. Winchester’s hand and arm are so big that it seems like it would hurt a lot. 

Mr. Winchester says a very bad word and Castiel whimpers. He didn’t mean to do anything wrong, but he’s scared, even though he doesn’t think Mr. Winchester would ever hurt him. Turning his face to bury it in his arms, Castiel tries to stop worrying. 

“Shh, Cas.” Mr. Winchester lets go of his bottom and rubs his lower back instead. “It might feel a little weird at first, but it’s going to be really good in a little bit, okay? I just need you to relax.”

Castiel nods and lets out a deep breath, trying as hard as he can to relax his body. It must work because Mr. Winchester’s finger slips in a little bit more and he makes a small sound like he’s in pain but keeps going. 

“That’s it, Cas,” he murmurs. His hand stays on Castiel’s back, sweeping back and forth. “Just like that.”

As Mr. Winchester finger continues to slide in, Castiel grabs the edge of his pajamas so he won’t move. He was right, it does feel weird, like Castiel wants to make him go away and go in deeper at the same time. Mr. Winchester keeps telling him what a good job he’s doing and stroking his back and soon Castiel gets used to the strange feeling of having a finger inside of him. 

When Castiel feels the rest of Mr. Winchester’s hand press against his bottom he starts to get nervous again, but Mr. Winchester doesn’t put anything else in. Instead, he leans over Castiel and kisses him quickly next to where his hand is on his back.

“All in, Cas,” he says as he sits back down. “You’re doing awesome.”

“My tummy _still_ hurts,” Castiel says, and he didn’t mean to whine, he really didn’t, little boys who whine are bad and annoying, but wouldn’t it have just been easier to send him back to bed? 

Mr. Winchester doesn’t tell him to stop being irritating, though, he just laughs and when Castiel peaks over his shoulder, he can see the bright smile on Mr. Winchester’s face. His laugh is just like his hands, warm and big. 

“I know,” he says, patting Castiel’s bottom. “It won’t soon, I promise.” His finger starts to wiggle inside Castiel, pressing on the inside of him and moving around. 

Huffing, Castiel rests his chin on his hands and stares at the blank TV screen. He can see the dark, distorted reflection of Mr. Winchester and him on it. He watches as Mr. Winchester’s hand leaves Castiel’s bottom and rests between his legs where his penis is, eyes almost closing when he touches there. 

Looking through the glass tabletop at his own penis, Castiel frowns. One of his science books has pictures of naked men in it and all of them have very big penises, but his isn’t that big at all. It’s only about as long as his thumb and it’s shaped different from there’s too, smooth where the others had edges. 

Bored with waiting for something to happen and cold because he’s wearing no clothes, Castiel sighs and asks, “Can I turn on the TV?”

Mr. Winchester looks up in surprise, his finger stopping its movement inside Castiel.

“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “There won’t be anything on this late, though.”

Stretching for the remote without moving his bottom is hard, but both of Mr. Winchester’s hands are busy so he manages. There’s not much on, just like Mr. Winchester said, but Castiel flips to the nature channel and settles on the documentary they’re showing, one about jaguar. He thinks if Mr. Winchester was any animal, it would be a jaguar. They’re both sleek and fast and both have the same bright green eyes.

When the jaguar is sleeping in the tree next to her dead antelope, Mr. Winchester’s finger starts to feel less awkward inside of him. It kind of feels like it’s glowing, if things that glow had a feeling to them. Like his finger is a tiny star. Castiel makes a startled sound and looks back at Mr. Winchester. 

Grinning, Mr. Winchester leans forward and kisses Castiel’s back again. “Told you.”

Castiel tries to pay attention to the television, he really does, but Mr. Winchester’s finger is getting brighter and brighter inside of him and Castiel is glancing down more and more often, biting his bottom lip to keep from squirming or making noises. Little boys who squirm or make a lot of noise are bad and annoying. 

His tummyache is going away, instead it feels like hot snakes are writhing inside of him, low in his belly. Mr. Winchester is still murmuring to him, but he can’t really hear what he’s saying over the television where the jaguar is stalking what looks like a really scary pig. 

Castiel’s heart and breathing speed up like it does when he runs a lot, which doesn’t make sense since he hasn’t moved at all for a long time. The snakes in his tummy are making him do things that he didn’t want to do, like lift his hips so Mr. Winchester’s finger will go deeper. 

Mr. Winchester is smiling at him, but not unkindly. Castiel wonders if he does this to the other little boys and girls he watches who have tummyaches. He’s told Castiel that watching other people’s children is how he gets money, but that none of them are as much fun as Castiel. 

Castiel can always tell when he’s going to watch other children because he brings a special bag, one with games and candy in it. Even though little boys who get jealous are bad and annoying, Castiel can’t help but be jealous of the little boy or girl Mr. Winchester is going to watch because he wants to spend time with Mr. Winchester.

Sometimes Castiel watches Mr. Winchester play outside with Sam from his window. They play catch a lot, maybe sled if it’s wintertime. Castiel has asked many times if he can go out and play with them, but his parents forbade it, saying that they might hire Mr. Winchester to watch Castiel but it’s only because he’s the cheapest and most convenient babysitter they can find, not because he’s a good role model. Good role models, they say, cost more than their dinner and he’s not worth that much.

Suddenly, Mr. Winchester’s finger goes away and Castiel whines before he can stop himself, leaning back to try and find it again. He didn’t realize how good it had felt until Mr. Winchester took it away and now his bottom tingles and feels empty. The snakes in his belly hiss and spit, mad that the feeling is gone. 

Clutching his pajamas, Castiel tries to figure out what he did wrong. Maybe he didn’t do anything and Mr. Winchester figured out that is tummy doesn’t hurt anymore and stopped, ready to send him back to bed. Castiel doesn’t _want_ to go to bed, he wants Mr. Winchester to put his finger back. 

“Sorry, Cas,” Mr. Winchester says, and he sounds like he’s hurting again. “Just one sec…”

Worried that Mr. Winchester is hurting himself trying to make Castiel feel better, he clutches his pajamas tighter and lifts his head. He wants to ask Mr. Winchester if he’s in pain and tell him that he’s fine now, he can go to bed, but Castiel’s greedy, even though he knows it’s bad to be. If he does tell Mr. Winchester that he’s okay now, he’ll be sent to bed, and Castiel doesn’t think he could stand to lay in bed with the tummy snakes still there. 

There’s the sound of a zipper and a grunt then Mr. Winchester sighs contently, pausing a few seconds before his hand returns and his finger slips back into Castiel. 

This time, though, Mr. Winchester presses something like a button and instead of feeling like a star, his finger feels like _lightning_ striking Castiel’s body.

 

x

 

Fuck, Castiel’s like a vice, burning hot on and sucking him in. When he tenses around Dean’s finger, Dean can’t help the curse that falls from his lips at the tightness and almost comes in his pants like a horny teenager thinking about putting his dick in there. Not this time, though. Maybe sometime in the future.

After a few minutes, Castiel isn’t even watching the TV. Instead, he’s staring at the floor and sinking his teeth in his bottom lip like he’s holding back sounds. Dean desperately wants to hear them but, not wanting to scare Castiel, he doesn’t tell him to let loose. 

Luckily, it’s obvious that Castiel is very much enjoying Dean fingering his ass. Dean was worried that his young body might not react as well as Dean’s hookups did, but before long a few noises start to break loose from the cage of his teeth. Shuddering breaths and sharp inhales make their way past his lips, though it looks like Castiel doesn’t even know he’s making them. 

Each little gasp and pant sends more and more of Dean’s blood flooding to his cock, and soon it gets far past the point of uncomfortable and he has to do something about it. Unfortunately, buttons and flies were not made to be undone one handed and Dean has to take his finger out of Castiel, making him whimper at the loss and tilt his ass up, then bury his face in his pj’s. 

"Sorry, Cas,” Dean says tightly. “Just one sec…”

Dean unzips his fly and grunts as his cock springs free of his jeans, then closes his fist around the swollen width of it and sighs. _Finally_. 

Not daring to do much more than stroke himself a few times for fear of ending this too early, Dean lightly jacks himself off while admiring the pretty picture in front of him. 

Castiel’s back is heaving and flushed bright red. The color travels up the back of his neck and across his face to stain the tips of his ears and what Dean can see of his cheeks. The blush also dips down to dapple his ass, crimson to match the pink of his puffy hole, clenching down on nothing and gaping even though all Dean used was his index finger. 

When Dean slides his finger back inside Castiel, the kid relaxes noticeably, but then Dean brushes across a small nub and grins. Found it. 

Right on cue, Castiel’s spine arches like he was electrocuted and cries out. It’s half a yelp of surprise and half a moan of pleasure, but when it’s over Castiel’s head whips around and he stares at Dean with wide eyes, panting like he just ran a marathon. 

“Don’t look at me like I hung the moon,” Dean says calmly, like this is a fucking everyday occurrence or something, just to see Castiel’s eyes get impossibly bigger. “It’s just your prostate.”

Dean gently rubs Castiel’s prostrate, moaning in response to Castiel’s drawn out whining as he wriggles on Dean’s hand. Knuckles white where he’s gripping the table and muscles clenching around Dean’s finger, Castiel looks like he’s about to explode from the stimulation. If he wasn’t hard before, he certainly is now.

“Have you ever felt like this before?” Dean says softly, bending forward to breathe the words into Castiel’s ear. He’s positive that he hasn’t, but like the sick fuck he is, he needs to hear the words right from Castiel’s bedroom-certified lips. 

“N-no,” Castiel stammers, gasping worse than a drowning man. 

“Never?” Dean drawls and gently bites the shell of Castiel’s ear, pulling a tiny, breathy groan from him that needs to be played on repeat all day for the rest of Dean’s life. “You’ve never touched yourself?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, but a brief look of confusion flits across his face, and Dean realizes with a burst of lust that goes straight to his cock that Castiel doesn’t even know what that _means_ , other than the literal definition. Jesus, this kid is going to be the death of him. 

“You never tug on your pretty little cock, alone in your bed at night?” To emphasize, Dean brings his hand from where he was lightly playing with his own dick to slide between Castiel’s legs and cup his. Erect, it’s still tiny, but rock hard beneath the silky layer of foreskin. Dean can almost feel his heartbeat throbbing through it.

“No,” Castiel says again, shaking now. “My parent s-say it’s a-…a sin.” Thinking he’s done, Dean delivers a series of hard and unyielding pokes straight onto his prostate. After he’s done squealing, though, Castiel continues. “Sometimes I w-wa…wake up and my penis is h-hard, but I don’t t-tou…” He full on _moans_ and no, rewind, _that_ is the sound Dean wants to record and listen to every day of his life. Castiel punches out the rest in one breath before his own pleasure can interrupt him again. “Idon’ttouchit.”

“Pity,” Dean says, but really it’s not, because it means _Dean_ can be the one responsible for his first orgasm, it means _Dean_ can be the one Castiel remembers as the one who gave this wonderful, beautiful gift to him. Dean remembers the first time he came, in the bathroom of some shitty motel room leaning against the toilet tank and not knowing what the fuck he was doing. “You missed a good time.”

Castiel squirms against him but can’t go anyway with Dean’s weight draped over him like this. He’s not pressing on Castiel but he’s certainly restraining him, enough to be able to mouth at the back of his neck. It would be glorious to be able to suck, to leave a deep purple mark and sign his masterpiece, but Dean doubts Castiel will have any easy time explaining away a bruise on the back of his neck, so his sticks to kissing. 

Abruptly, Castiel’s eyes fly open and he stills against Dean, so stiff you would think he was made of wood. For one terrible, heart stopping moment, Dean thinks that Castiel heard a car door, that his parents are home early. There’s abso-fucking-lutely no way Dean would be able to sweet talk his way out of this one. It would be go to jail, go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. 

But no, it’s not Dean’s impending doom walking through the front door, it’s Castiel himself, who starts to shake against Dean like he’s terrified. Dean would think he was if not for the airy sounds he’s making, tiny moans and whimpers.

“Mr. Winchester,” he pants, muscles flexing and clenching on Dean regularly now. “Mr. Winchester, I think I-…I think…oh!”

If Castiel could pitch forward he would, but as it is, his forehead just falls to the table with, thanks to his pj’s, a soft thump. His mouth falls open and his forehead creases like he’s screaming silently, and suddenly it hits Dean like a punch to the gut. 

Oh God, _yes_. Scrambling for the remote, Dean shuts the TV off, turning it into a makeshift mirror. Forgetting for a moment who he’s with, Dean growls and fists his hand in Castiel’s hair, harshly yanking his head up so he can see his face reflected in the screen. There’s no way he’s missing out on what very well may be his only chance to see Castiel’s orgasm face.

Castiel yelps, more in shock than in pain, but the sound pulls Dean out of his faze and into the present and he promptly lets go of Castiel’s hair. Aware, now, that the consequence of finishing this will be trying to scrub Castiel’s come stain from the carpet, Dean immediately stops rubbing his prostate and squeezes the base of his dick with a ring made from his pointer finger and thumb, ruthlessly adverting his orgasm.

Tensing against him, Castiel quite literally cries out, emitting a broken sob that kind of makes Dean feel like the biggest asshole in the universe. 

“Dean,” Castiel groans miserably, and fuck, even spoken like that, like he’s the scum of the earth, Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on by someone just saying his goddamn name. The vowels roll around on Castiel’s tongue for a moment before he flicks them out with a flip of his tongue to make the _nnn_ sound. He really needs to find a way to make Castiel start calling him Dean instead of Mr. Winchester.

“I know,” Dean says, pulling his finger from Castiel and petting down his side. His skin shines with what lube hasn’t dried on Dean’s hand, but the repeated motion makes it fades away. “I know, Cas, but not here.”

Nothing in the world could prepare Dean for what Castiel does next. Moaning like a whore, his hips twitch back and then forward, cock sliding in an out of Dean’s fingers. _Fucking_ into Dean’s hand. A very creative string of swears winds through Dean’s head and his jaw hits the floor as he watches. Dean wishes he brought a video camera because this is better than any fucking porno he’s ever seen, better than any he _will_ see. 

Dean has half a mind to let him have at it, carpet be damned, but he’s got a better idea. A much better idea. Reluctantly, Dean lets go of Castiel’s dick and grabs the kid’s hips, hauling him up into his lap then scooping him up bridal style. Grabbing onto his shirt for support, Castiel turns wide, pleading eyes up at Dean, shifting in his arms to try and find friction.

Stroking Castiel’s head as best he can with his arm supporting the upper half of him, Dean stands and carries him from the living room. He’s never left a partner unsatisfied and he isn’t about to start now.

 

x

 

Mr. Winchester keeps touching that spot inside of him that makes Castiel feel like he’s floating and falling at the same time. His parents are wrong, this isn’t a sin. It feels more like heaven. 

The snakes in his belly are going lower and lower and they keep getting hotter and bigger the more Mr. Winchester touches him. One time when Castiel’s parents took him to Ireland, he stood on the edge of a really big cliff and looked down, and that’s what he feels like now, in his head. The tummy snakes are pushing him uphill towards a huge cliff and a giant fall, but even though it’s scary, the fall will be good. 

“Mr. Winchester,” Castiel says, trying to warn him that he’s going to fall. “Mr. Winchester, I think I-…I think…”

But then Mr. Winchester presses really hard on that spot and Castiel can’t talk anymore. A lot of strange things happen after that. Mr. Winchester grabs his hair and pulls his head up, only to let go right after he does, then he puts his fingers around Castiel’s penis and squeezes. That pulls Castiel away from the cliff faster than his mother when she saw him so close to the edge. 

Castiel thinks he might explode; the snakes in his tummy are so big and angry and even though he doesn’t feel like lightning is inside of him anymore, Castiel is still twitching. He groans in discomfort and thinks it might come out sounding like Mr. Winchester’s first name, which makes him embarrassed because little boys who don’t show respect for their elders are bad and annoying, and he _does_ have respect for Mr. Winchester! Lots of it!

“I know,” Mr. Winchester says and he takes his finger out of Castiel and runs his hand up and down his side. “I know, Cas, but not here.”

Not here? Why not here? Does Mr. Winchester mean another time? Castiel imagines trying to keep the snakes inside of him until Mr. Winchester comes to visit him another time and makes a desperate noise, pushing his bottom backwards to try and pull his penis from Mr. Winchester’s hand.

It doesn’t work, but Mr. Winchester’s fingers sliding up his penis feel really good, almost as good as when he was touching inside him, so Castiel pushes forward and then pulls back again, faster now. He knows Mr. Winchester wants to wait but he can’t imagine feeling like this for weeks until his parents go out again. 

Panicking when Mr. Winchester’s hand disappears completely, Castiel feels his throat start to hurt like it does before he cries, but then his hands are back and pulling Castiel into Mr. Winchester’s lap. Something hard and hot pokes his bottom as Mr. Winchester stands up, shifting Castiel in his arms to carry him like a baby, and he brings Castiel into the bathroom.

“Kneel here,” Mr. Winchester says, patting the sink counter. Castiel does as he’s told and leans back against Mr. Winchester for support because he feels wiggly, like Jell-o. 

Looking up, Castiel is startled to see a pair of eyes looking right back at him. He had forgotten about the big mirror his parents put up last week, Castiel doesn’t really use the downstairs bathroom. Mr. Winchester is watching him closely in the mirror over his shoulder and his eyes travel down to look at Castiel’s body.

Copying Mr. Winchester, Castiel drops his gaze to the rest of his reflection. He looks like he’s really hot, redness and sweat is covering his whole body, but the part that’s most red is his penis. It looks kind of scary, all red and swollen, like it’s infected. Castiel has been hard like this before but it was always in bed, so he’s never _seen_ his penis like this. 

“You’re so pretty, Cas,” Mr. Winchester whispers in his ear, so close that Castiel can hear his teeth clicking and his breath makes the little hairs on his arms stand up. He shivers. 

Mr. Winchester’s hand closes around his penis and moves it up and down a few times and Castiel can’t help the way his hips go forward to meet Mr. Winchester halfway there. Murmuring praises, Mr. Winchester puts his finger back inside and rubs the lightning spot again until Castiel feels like he’s going to melt. 

“Mr. Winchester,” Castiel gasps. “Please.” His fingers are tight on Castiel’s penis again and they won’t let the snakes out. 

His green eyes look up from where he was looking at Castiel’s penis in the mirror and Mr. Winchester grins.

“Say my name, Cas.”

Why, Castiel thinks. He just _said_ Mr. Winchester’s name, but he says it again anyway. “Mr. Winchester.”

Shuddering, Mr. Winchester presses his nose into Castiel’s neck and rubs it back and forth.

“My first name.”

Castiel knows this, sometimes his parents make him do things he knows are wrong and then punish him, even though they _told_ him to do it. He shakes his head. 

Pushing on the lightning button and refusing to let go no matter how hard Castiel squirms, Mr. Winchester says, “Say it.” He says it again and again until Castiel’s sure his insides are mush. 

“Dean!” Castiel cries out, because spankings are worth the end of this torture that Castiel can’t decide if he loves or hates, but then Mr. Winchester lets go of his penis and runs his finger along the top instead.

And Castiel falls.

 

x

 

“Dean!” 

Ne’er a sweeter sound had been heard that that, Dean thinks, and fuck if it doesn’t go straight to his cock. Even though it would be the dickiest move in the history of ever, Dean kind of wants to keep the cock ring of his fingers on Castiel’s prick, keep him squirming and beautiful like his, his head dropped back against Dean’s shoulder and offering a dirty full frontal in the mirror. Dean’s dick is still out, pressed up against the small of Castiel’s back, right above the swell of his perfect ass, but Castiel is so far gone he doesn’t even know it’s there. 

Figuring he shouldn’t draw it out too long (Castiel’s only a kid and is probably dying right now, the first time Dean touched himself he was done in less than thirty seconds), Dean releases his cock and thumbs over the head, smearing the few drops of precome that have leaked out. 

Almost immediately, Castiel pitches forward like he was shot and screams so loud Dean has to clap a hand over his mouth so the neighbors won’t call the goddamn cops. That would be an interesting conversation- _Yes, officer, Mr. Winchester was just helping me with my tummyache._

Though muffled by his hand, Castiel is still loud enough that his voice echoes around the bathroom, and with one last jab at his prostate, he falls apart, streaking the mirror and counter with strips of white. 

The world narrows down to one tiny pinprick: Castiel’s face in the mirror. It seems to tense and relax all at once. His facial features slacken- jaw dropping, eyelids relaxing, voice fading out until he’s silent- but he makes a face almost like he’s in pain. Eyebrows drawn together, lips quivering, forehead wrinkling. Scrambling for the cell phone in his back pocket, Dean whips it out and snaps a picture before Castiel’s face slips and makes a mental note to copy it to his laptop as soon as he gets home so Sam, the nosey bitch he is, won’t find it. 

Like he’s suddenly boneless, Castiel sags against Dean as the last few dribbles of come spurt out of his cock. Dean strokes his hair and the back of his neck as he slowly comes back to himself, blue eyes blinking open and looking around blearily, unfocused and glazed. 

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean says as he inspects the damage. “You got it everywhere _but_ the sink.”

It takes a few seconds for Castiel to answer, and when he does, his voice is little more than a croak. “Sorry.”

“How do you feel?” Dean asks. He plants a chaste kiss on Castiel’s temple. 

Castiel looks down at himself, taking inventory, and says, “My belly doesn’t hurt.”

Before he can stop himself, Dean laughs, tossing his head back and letting loose. Castiel looks up in alarm at him as he bounces against the shaking of Dean’s chest. 

It’s only when Castiel shifts against him and his hip brushes over his cock that Dean’s hysteria dies down, shrinking to make room for his rapidly expanding libido. 

Scooting Castiel over so he can lean over the sink himself, Dean braces one hand on the counter and jerks off, recalling Castiel’s breathy sounds, the way he moved against Dean, the feel of his muscles squeezing his finger, how he desperately fucked into Dean’s hand. 

It’s not enough, though, not _quite_ enough, so Dean turns to the Castiel of now rather than the one in his memories. When Dean slid him away, it was through the mess he made, and now his own come is smeared across his ass. The pretty blush is still staining his skin, all the way down to where his dick is softening, and he’s watching Dean through half lidded eyes, pupils dilated and irises shining. 

Then, like he’s moving in slow motion through molasses, Castiel tentatively reaches towards Dean, and it’s not until he’s three quarters of the way there that Dean realizes what he’s going to do and he chokes on his own breath, heart nearly slamming to a stop.

The first hesitant touch is a slice of heaven wrapped in sin and drizzled with perfection, soft fingerpads brushing gently across the heated head of his dick and sending sparks tingling all the way from the roots of his hair. 

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, eyes sliding shut, and Castiel pulls back like he did something wrong. Blindly, Dean gropes for his hand and, when he finds, it he encloses it in his own. It’s so small that the whole thing disappears inside Dean’s fingers; Castiel’s whole hand is probably no bigger than his palm.

“Lick,” he says, raising his hand to Castiel’s mouth and unfurling his fingers. Castiel glances uncertainly down at his palm but licks it anyway with tiny kitten licks that still somehow end up being more erotic than if he had deepthroated it. He lets Dean cover wrap his hand around his cock and jerk it roughly up and down, finesse long gone. 

Really, Dean has more stamina that this, but after just a couple minutes of Castiel’s baby soft palm running over the length of his dick, controlled by Dean’s own hand on top of it, he comes so hard he thinks his brain comes out of his cock. Exhausted, Dean stumbles back and falls onto the rim of the tub, panting and not sure he has any usable brain cells left.

Still sitting on the sink, Castiel inspects his hand curiously, tilting to see the way the lights reflects off the white left on his hand after Dean’s orgasm. He rubs his fingers together then, as Dean watches breathlessly, uncertainly touches the tip of his index finger to his tongue. 

Expecting to get a disgusted face in response, like Castiel just sucked on a lemon, Dean is about to explain that it’s normal, but then Castiel gives this half shrug that clearly says _meh_ and sticks his whole goddamn finger in his mouth, sucking it like it’s his favorite flavor of lollypop Dean not so accidentally buys when he’s doing the shopping. 

Dean’s cock gives a valiant twitch and he makes a wounded sound in the back of his throat, startling Castiel, who looks up like he forgot Dean was there. Looking guilty, he pulls his finger from his mouth and wipes it on the bare skin of his thigh, leaving a streak of shimmering saliva on his skin. The shitty light of the bathroom hardly does Castiel justice, but even here Dean can see the subtle blush that deepens the one that had been fading on his skin

“Don’t stop on my account,” Dean says, but Castiel only gets redder and ducks his head, a few strands of hair falling across his face. 

While Dean may be young, he doesn’t think he can get it up that fast after such a powerful orgasm, but he can definitely think of a few other things that they could spend the evening doing. Unfortunately, life is not the porno Dean sometimes thinks it is, and Castiel is just a kid who’s bedtime was over three hours ago. 

Castiel yawns, making a tiny sound and not even bothering to cover his mouth. He rubs his eye afterwards and smiles sheepishly, blinking the moisture from his eyes.

“Bedtime, kiddo,” Dean says. “Just a quick shower, first.”

“But I’m not-…” The rest of his words are lost as he stifles another yawn, this time raising his hand to his mouth to hide it. 

“Uh-huh,” Dean says. He turns on the shower, testing the spray with his hand until it’s a pleasantly warm, and pulls out a few towels from the closet. Castiel allows himself to be manhandled into the shower, relaxing back against Dean when he steps him behind him.

Thinking that no matter how much the Novaks suck, they don’t deserve to have come on their bar of soap, Dean squirts some shampoo into his hand and uses it to scrub down Castiel’s body. He doesn’t stop at the dried come, though. His hands continue down the smooth skin of Castiel’s body, cleaning from his shoulders to his ankles. Dean ends at the hair plastered to Castiel’s head, massaging shampoo into his scalp. Castiel sighs, the only sound he’s made the entire time.

After what they just did, Dean doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with pulling Castiel just a little bit closer to him. What’s the harm in it? 

When Dean tucks Castiel into bed, he doesn’t stop himself from pushing his hair back from his forehead and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. Castiel closes his eyes, lashes casting inky shadows across his cheekbones, and Dean thinks if there were angels, Castiel would definitely be one.


End file.
